


Postcard

by ZoeWarren



Series: Postcards in Paradise [1]
Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Gen, Postcards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeWarren/pseuds/ZoeWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after the events of 3x01, Camille receives an unexpected postcard.</p><p>Spoilers for season 3 and onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcard

**Author's Note:**

> This story overlaps the events at the end of episode 3x03. Some dialogue from that episode appears in the story.

Camille found the postcard as she finalized the paperwork on the murder of Carlton Paris. She shifted a stack a files and uncovered a bright splash of colour on the surface of her desk. She almost threw it away, assumed it was a flyer or a scrap of junk mail, until the picture on the front finally registered: a cartoon drawing of a couple arguing in front of a caravan that had half-collapsed under the weight of the branch fallen on top of it. The word “CLACTON” was printed in Sharpie in the bottom right-hand corner.  
   
Grief pressed hard and sudden against her chest, and her fingers shivered as she flipped the card over.  
   
Aside from her name and the station’s address, printed in the same neat block capitals in the right half of the card, there was no text. And no return address.  
  
“Dwayne?”  
   
Camille barely recognized her own voice. The strangled sound of it pulled Dwayne up out of his chair.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
   
She cleared her throat, tried again. “When did this arrive?” Better, but Dwayne was already crossing the room toward her.  
   
“What is it?”  
   
She held up the postcard.  
   
“Yesterday, I think.” Dwayne squinted in thought. “Or the day before. Is it important?”  
  
Camille flipped the card over again. The postmark was British and dated eight days ago. Eight days. Richard had been gone more than a month.  
   
Camille forced a shrug. "Probably not.”  
   
Dwayne caught her gaze, concerned. “Who sent it? Do you want me to..?”  
   
Camille shook her head. “No.” She squashed the small spark that dared ignite inside her. “No, it’s probably nothing.”  
  
** **  
  
When Dwayne left the office on a petty theft call, Camille retrieved the kit from Fidel's desk and dusted the postcard for fingerprints. She felt ridiculous, but the lack of any message made her feel there was _something_ she was supposed to find.  
  
She pulled the file of the team's exclusion prints and sat down to compare.  
  
Hers. Dwayne's. Nearly a dozen unknowns. None of Richard's.  
  
Camille frowned.  
  
The postcard was from Richard. Camille held no doubts about that. A caravan in Clacton. No one else in the world would send her a postcard of a caravan in Clacton. He wanted her know it was him. Her, but no one else.  
  
But either he hadn't ever handled the card, or he had worn gloves while he did. Neither option made any sense. None of it made sense. Who had posted it for him? And why now? Surely it was too cruel to be just a joke...  
  
Camille documented the unknown prints, then slipped the postcard into an evidence bag. After a moment's hesitation, she tucked the whole thing into her purse.  
  
** **  
  
At the end of the day, Camille left Dwayne to lock up and headed for home. Somehow, she ended up at Richard's shack instead.  
   
_Humphrey's_ shack.  
  
She was almost used to calling it that.  
  
Humphrey had a beer waiting for her on the verandah, but she lingered inside, hoping to find answers in this place that had been Richard's in spite of himself.  
  
She smiled. He would mock her outright for even entertaining the thought that a dead man had sent her mail.  
  
And there were logical explanations, of course. He wrote the postcard when he visited London shortly before his death. His mother found it when she was going through his things and put it in the post for him.  
  
Or he'd left it in an out tray somewhere at the Met and they'd only just got around to posting it.  
  
Or he'd posted it himself and it had languished at the bottom of a damp English postbox somewhere for all these weeks.  
  
Or...  
  
No.  
  
"I'll buy them from you for a penny," she called out to Humphrey. She'd gladly pay for his thoughts if they would chase away her own.  
  
The roundabout argument that ensued about the correct form of the expression settled her nerves enough that she could sit beside him on the steps. The breeze off the ocean was warm, soothing, the humidity satin soft against her skin. She took a sip of her beer.  
   
"I suppose I am a bit lonely," Humphrey said. "Bound to be. I've been with Sally, you see, and now I'm not. It takes a bit of adjusting."  
   
Camille looked away, reached down and pulled off her shoes. Too close to home. Too close... And yet Richard was only a friend. Camille had no reason to be lonely.  
  
"Even looked at an internet dating site," he said.  
  
"Really? Did you do it?"  
  
"No."  
   
She pushed to her feet again, restless.  
   
"There might be someone out there," she said. "Just waiting for you."  
   
She stared out to sea. The sun bled into the water at the horizon. What if...  
   
"You think?" Humphrey said.  
   
"Why not?"  
  
What if it was all some big conspiracy? What if Richard was out there somewhere?  
  
"I'm afraid I fell at the first hurdle, you see..."  
  
Camille tried to listen to Humphrey, but her mind kept reaching back into the grey haze of memories that surrounded Richard's death, kept picking at the edges of a wound that was still raw. That still ached. What if...  
  
...no.  
  
No. ' _What ifs_ ' led to ' _if onlys_ ', and Camille refused to give in to those. If she allowed herself even one, it would open the floodgates and she'd drown in them. Richard was dead, and fantasizing otherwise would only prolong the pain.  
  
She dragged her attention back to Humphrey's words, realized she was in danger of being rude. "I'm teasing," she said. "You can put that you're kind, you're handsome, and you're very sexy."  
  
"Really?"  
  
The sun sank out of sight. Camille stared out into the last of the light. "Of course. It's internet," she said. "Everyone lies." She managed a grin back over her shoulder. It almost felt normal.  
  
** **  
  
At home that night, Camille took the postcard out of her purse. She sat, holding it, for a long time. Her fingers played idly with the plastic of the evidence bag, sliding it back and forth, back and forth.  
  
Whatever freak of postal ineptitude had caused it, Richard had been given this chance to say goodbye. And of course he had no words for the occasion.  
  
Camille scrubbed at the tears with the back of her hand. She folded the evidence bag carefully around the postcard and slipped it between two books on her shelf. She took a breath and sighed.  
  
"Goodbye, Richard."


End file.
